


Never Wager Against a Team that Will Do Anything to Win

by tjs_whatnot



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: But at least we can all agree that the Redskins are horrible-yes?, Cheaters never win... oh wait... yes they do, It's all a metaphor, Lost a Bet, M/M, living on the DL, oh god what have I done?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete knows how to get his buddy's mind off the big game and the scandal that has surrounded it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Wager Against a Team that Will Do Anything to Win

**Author's Note:**

> So, in a mad sense of hometown pride and a erroneous belief that karma was on the side of right, I made a bet with a friend (who will remain nameless--though not blameless) on the outcome of last year's Super Bowl. This story is me paying up. She was the one who asked for this pairing.

“Come on Bill, lets get out of here. You look like you need to unwind,” Pete said, clapping a hand on his long-time friend’s shoulders.

“Sounds good,” Bill mumbled. He was hoarse from the day of media coverage all asking the same fuckin’ questions over and over again. If he never heard the word deflate again in his life, it would be too soon. The two weeks before had been horrendous enough, but this was the fuckin’ Super Bowl. Did it really matter now? Okay, yeah, he knew it mattered. But for fuck sake, media, let it go. _Let me and my players have their fuckin’ moment, would ya?_

Pete led them out of the room, down the hall and out the door before Bill asked, “Where are we going?” He didn’t really care. He did hope their was a open bar involved. Not that that was the greatest of ideas, given the circumstances. He’d already been on camera saying some pretty stupid things--explaining how barometric pressure worked in the longest, most boring press conference ever--being among the top of the list. He didn’t think adding a drunken rant would really help. 

“To sweat out the toxins,” Pete responded, his hand still on his friend’s shoulder.

Bill froze. Sweating? A few things came to mind at this word, spoken by this man, and neither of them were something he’d imagine would help him unwind. “Um... I’m not about to take this pasty, white, old ass to a gym anywhere in this city. Not this weekend, and not with my guys--who are supposed to look up to me and take me seriously--within eye sight.”

Pete laughed. “Like I’d embarrass either of us that way. No, a different sort of sweating all together.”

Flashes of one night on his boat years and years ago buzzed through Bill’s mind and he tensed. “Pete, buddy, that was one night… one lonely, miserable night… I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was--”

“Relax sport, nothing of the sort. I had even forgotten that… well not _forgotten_ entirely. But no, that wasn’t even close to what I had in mind.”

“Oh, okay,” Bill sighed and tried to ignore the odd bit of regret that washed over him briefly before he’d pushed it back down where it belonged. “So, what exactly _did_ you have in mind?”

“You’ll see,” was all Pete would answer as they walked to his rented Tahoe. 

An hour later, they turned down a red-dusted road that looked like it might lead to a nuclear testing facility. Bill had been lulled into a strange sense of peace that came from being with an old friend and not having to talk about anything. There was a lot they could talk about, their friendship after all was forged by the same driving career and paths in that career that had overlapped. They had a lot of shared experiences, lot of men they had both coached, worked with, or for, in common. They both had opinions about their organization. They even hated most of the same refs. But they were at that time of year when your whole life was about a thing and the very last thing you want to do when you didn’t have to was _talk_ about it.

Over the orange and gold horizon they finally saw some man-made structures. A large building stood in the middle of a smattering of Tipis. “Um, Pete?” Bill asked slowly. Images of peyote and vision quests ran through his mind. 

Pete just laughed. 

They parked and got out as a group of Native American men in Wranglers, cowboy boots, colorful, tucked-in western style shirts with long braids down their backs came out of the buildings, taking turns embracing Pete who returned their hugs enthusiastically. He introduced them all to Bill who instantly forgot all their names and what tribe they were from.

“So,” Pete began, clapping his hands excitedly. “You mind if we have a Sweat?”

The men led them to what Bill realized as they got closer looked less like tipis and more like igloos, dome shaped and barely tall enough for them to stand in. The middle of the room held a pit of hot rocks with an elderly man, bare chested and barefoot scooped water. Bill felt exceedingly uncomfortable but followed Pete anyway as they walked around the heat and to the other side of the room where there was a changing room. 

As they took off their clothes and wrapped a thin white towel around their waists Bill voiced his uncertainties. “A sweat lodge, Pete? Really? Isn’t this a bit… I don’t know… racially insensitive?”

Pete laughed again and Bill was really starting to hate the sound of it. “With that douchebag Snyder around, the bar on racially insensitive is pretty low. But no, I am an invited guest, which is one of the perks for working for an organization that strives to include it’s local tribes instead of marginalize them. You show them respect out there, honor their traditions and I promise you, you will leave here as relaxed as you’ve ever been in your life.”

“We’ll see,” Bill mumbled, unconvinced.

When they walked out into the center of the room, a few of the men they had meet were also wrapped in towels. They were chanting and moving around the room. For a second, Bill was terrified that they would be required to say or do something. But then Pete sat down on one of the benches that ran around the room and Bill sat next to him, mimicking his friend’s bowed head and deep breathing.

There was a moment, not too long after sitting down, but feeling like an eternity later, when Bill stopped feeling silly, stopped internally moaning about the wooden bench’s effects on his backside--in fact, he stopped feeling the discomfort all together--and stopped the barrage of reporters insistent yammering that he hadn’t even realized had been the soundtrack of his subconscious mind for days now. It all stopped. 

He would have been shocked if he had marked the exact moment it happened, but he couldn’t. It was like the drift to sleep on the nights that you were sure slumber would never come until quietly, slowly and imperceptibly, it did. You can’t mark the moment of your body’s surrender, nor recount the moments before, but slowly, you revel in its effect.

The first thing he noticed was his breathing, how deep and strong it was, how he felt air coming and going from every pore of his body. It was exhilarating and peaceful at the same time. He wasn’t sure why, but it took him back to a place in time he hadn’t revisited in years.

The sea.

His father had taken him on his first fishing trip. It was something that they did more and more of as Bill grew up and became competent. Bill didn’t mind the fishing part, but he mostly went for the sea, for the wind on the water, the movement and standing still at once of it, the isolation where you had time and space to just _be_. Plus, it was the time his father was the most talkative, the most generous. He learned a lot about life and how to live it with his father while on the football field, but he learned the point of it and what it offered as reward while on the boat with him. 

Then in college in both Massachusetts and Connecticut, he found any opportunity to get out on a boat. Thankfully for him, he had enough of the right sort of friends, with the right sort of wealth that he found himself on the water quite often. Sometimes the peace he found on the boat was replaced with another sort of recreation that he found he also quite enjoyed and that was reserved only for the open water as well.

He convinced himself that it happened to everyone, that everyone had these urges from time to time that didn’t _necessarily_ make them… queer. Those urges that you didn’t dwell on, didn’t think about, but also, out there on the water, in the company of men, not something you felt overly _wrong_ about. _It probably happened a lot_ , he thought to himself in those few times in his life he thought about it all.

He thought about it the last time he was close to nude in the company of Pete Carrol, the last time they had tried to ease the tensions of their shared professions woes. Then it had been a different “Gate” altogether. He really hated that all scandals in the last 40 years had to have that word added to them, “Spygate,” “Deflategate.” It was ridiculous. Fuckin’ Nixon.

He thought about it as they left the moist warmth of the sweat lodge and made their way back to the dressing room. Like Pete had predicted, Bill was more relaxed than he’d ever been in his life. More relaxed than he had ever been on the boat, had ever been in the arms of frat brothers and other curious men looking for quick, guilt free, no-strings enjoyments.

Standing behind Pete, smelling the sweat, close enough to almost taste it, he thought of little else. 

Pete turned around and if he was shocked by their closeness, or the hungry, needy look Bill was giving him, he didn’t show it. 

“So are you… more relaxed?”

BIll smiled slow. “Yes. Thank you. This was _exactly_ what I needed.”

“I’m glad,” Pete said, dropping his towel. “So, Bill, tell me, you ever get on the boat anymore?”

Bill licked his lips, fighting the urge to drop his own towel, drop his guard. “It’s been a while. I miss it.”

Pete’s smile was almost pornographic and made that little bit of self control Bill was clinging to slip away. He adjusted his towel, _accidentally_ grazing Pete’s dick as he did. When he discovered it was erect, he moaned.

“I miss it too,” Pete whispered. “Maybe we should go out again. Just us.”

Bill bit his lip and nodded. “Sounds excellent. Your boat or mine?”

“Hmmm,” Pete purred and the sound of it went straight to Bill’s crotch. “That’s a tough one. I know how much you like to set the course, do the steering. But, I’ve got a new boat, with a few moves I’d like to show you as well.”

“Maybe we could…” Bill started, not sure what he was going to suggest. Thankfully Pete interrupted with an idea of his own.

“...Let the outcome of the game tomorrow decide?”

BIll laughed. “Like a wager?”

Pete laughed too. “Something like that. Instead of bowls of clam chowder and smoked salmon or whatever, our stakes will be a bit more… interesting… more…”

“Fun to pay out?” Bill finished.

“Exactly.” Pete answered, turning around and walking his bare ass away.

Bill whistled. He liked when the odds were in his favor, but he liked even more when even losing would feel like a win.


End file.
